Two Men and a Wyvern
by avi17
Summary: Or, bits and pieces of the relationship between Gerome and Inigo. -slash-


Fire Emblem fanfic, how about that? XD Been a long time, but I have been playing Awakening for the last month or so and this happened. Written because this pairing needs more love.

Be aware as you read that these are just little drabble-type scenes. They go in chronological order, but there are time gaps between, broken up by the various events and conversations in the game itself. (Initially they weren't going to all be related, but about halfway through they decided that they totally were. XD) So don't be confused by the flow, or lack thereof. XP

[begin]

The awkward silence is tangible, laying like a heavy blanket over the two occupants of the small tent. Inigo is trying not to sulk, really- or gods forbid, cry- but he hardly knows how to deal with a comrade who all but spits in the face of his frequent attempts at friendliness. He had barely known Gerome in the future, though their mothers had been friendly and they had been introduced as children. A vague memory comes to mind of Gerome ignoring his attempts to get the older boy to play with him, and he is reasonably sure that the afternoon ended with his younger self sobbing into his mother's skirts. Apparently, the situation has improved less than he might have hoped.

"Look, I didn't ask to be put in a tent with you either, tall-dark-and-antisocial. You really could be a better sport about this." Gerome shoots him a long, withering stare from beneath the mask and Inigo falls silent again, fidgeting uncomfortably under his gaze. He has a sudden urge to steal the stupid thing and hide it somewhere, just to give the other man a taste of feeling exposed.

Minerva makes a sort of strange cooing noise from outside (Inigo will later learn that this means she is lonely and wants attention), and her rider sighs, pulling himself to his feet and monotoning, "I'm leaving. ...Don't follow me."

It is already late- Inigo has practicing that he could be doing, and he can be stubborn too if he wants. "It's not following if I leave first!" he declares loudly, hopping up and heading for the opening of the tent. They knock shoulders in the doorway on the way out and he catches Gerome's long-suffering groan.

_0-0-0-0-0_

When Gerome first began to notice that Inigo was often gone from his bed, sometimes even when he found himself lying awake at first light, this is not what he had been expecting. The boy has talent, that much is obvious, and surprising grace, completely different from that of a skilled warrior on the battlefield. This grace is inherited from his mother- as, it seems, is the dance itself. The routine is vibrant, joyful, and surprisingly complicated, its movements probably intended to be performed with a sheer, long scarf like the one that Olivia frequently employs. However, lacking one of these, Inigo appears to have tied together a number of small towels at the ends, and is unashamedly twirling around the clearing with his towel-rope, looking like the carefree fool that he is and clearly too absorbed in his practice to care.

It is equal parts the most ridiculous thing he has ever seen and oddly inspiring, and somehow still beautiful despite the absurdity. Gerome is surprised that Minerva has not attempted to take a nip at the fluttering fabric, but she is perfectly still- mesmerized, as he is finding himself as well. The shallow flirt that he has come to know and mostly tolerate is not here. This person is focused, driven- if anything, even more bizarre, but also much more interesting.

At that moment, Inigo stumbles and curses, his concentration breaking for the first time since Gerome's arrival. Silently, rider and mount slip off into the night before they are caught.

Perhaps he will return tomorrow. Minerva will want to see the ending.

_0-0-0-0-0_

Adrenaline and desperation set Inigo's blood afire as his blade slices through enemy armor and flesh with a precision that surprises even him. The battle rages on all sides, but his focus has narrowed to nothing but himself, the roar of the wyvern beside him, and the danger encroaching on every side. Minerva is vicious as he has never seen her, letting none but him near her fallen rider, and he prays that she will not shred the healer when one finally -hopefully- comes.

Wrapped in the protective encircling of his mount's armored tail, Gerome lies sprawled on the muddy ground, barely conscious and murmuring something unintelligible about destiny and the cruelty of fate. He has taken a barbed arrow deep in the shoulder and another in the side, shot down by a Valmese sniper whose sharp eyes had discerned the weakest joints in his armor. His face is bloodless and his breathing shallow; one more blow will finish him, and perhaps that is what he expects, but Inigo is not about to let that happen- and neither, it seems, is Minerva. The thick smell of blood surrounds them both as the dance of sword and claws and teeth grows in ferocity, and they move and fight and kill together as one, for a common purpose.

Later, he waits outside the healing tent for news with Minerva curled up on the grass behind him. It has been hours, but neither of them has any intention or expectation of sleep. As he catches a glimpse of her eyes in the dark- the worry in them mirroring his own- he thinks he understands at least one part of his favorite enigma a little better.

_0-0-0-0-0_

Inigo thinks he is a little bit in shock. Only days ago they were at war; surely there is no way he is lying in a real bed in Ylisse, cheeks flushed with too much celebratory drink and legs wrapped haphazardly around Gerome's waist. They haven't even stripped out of their clothes and armor, just shifted cloth and loosened laces so that they can press together in a way that has them both faintly gasping. In a way, the physical sensation is almost cathartic- the war is over, and even though much was lost and neither of them has any idea where they are going from here, it is as though they can _breathe_ for the first time in their whole lives. Perhaps it was this strange, unfamiliar feeling of ease that finally gave him the courage earlier in the night to grab the object of his carefully concealed affections and kiss him. Perhaps it was also courage of the liquid variety, but he is hardly going to split hairs at this point. That Gerome actually returned the gesture, and even almost smiled, was worth the stares.

There are promises that he could- should- make, but instead, the most inane thing that he could possibly say comes falling out of his mouth. "...So, do I finally get to be manhandled?"

Gerome somehow manages to glare, looking perfectly disdainful and still mostly dignified even with his mask askew over his burning red face. "Shut up."

The corners of Inigo's lips curl into a tiny, playful smile as he reaches up to finally pull the cumbersome thing away and reveal the man underneath. "Make me."

_0-0-0-0-0_

_"Inigo traveled the world, ever ready with a smile or a solution when trouble started to brew. His services and performances were rewarded with the best currency: the joy and gratitude of others."_

_"Gerome and Minerva set out for Wyvern Valley. Many saw the rider and mount through the years, though most described the man as distant and contemplative."_

_0-0-0-0-0_

Lately, Gerome has taken to spending his nights outside with the wyverns instead of in his empty bed. He insists to himself that this is to keep an eye on Minerva's brood of hatchlings, and not in any way due to the beginnings of loneliness. It has been nearly a year since he has last had human company- longer than usual. The circles under his eyes have deepened, and he has a perpetual dull ache in his shoulder from the decade-old arrow wound; he has probably passed thirty by now, but he rarely bothers to keep track. As two of the tiny hatchlings curl up on his legs, he leans back against their mother's side, stroking the familiar smoothness of her scales and exhaling deeply.

"How did I know you would be out here?"

The voice is familiar, and more welcome than he would ever readily admit. Inigo is wearing a worn traveling cloak and his usual effusive grin, a heavy pack still slung over his shoulder. Faint lines are beginning to appear at the corners of his mouth and eyes- he smiles too much, but right now Gerome is glad to see it. The younger man raises his eyebrows at the occupants of Gerome's lap and adds, "Well, I would jump at the chance to lay all over you, but it seems I've lost my spot."

Gerome chuckles before he can stop himself. "You can join."

In the blink of an eye, Inigo drops his pack and plops down on the grass next to the wyvern and her master, leaning his head against Gerome's good shoulder. Minerva purrs approvingly, not needing to open her eyes to recognize the new arrival, and one of the baby wyverns nibbles the toe of Inigo's boot curiously. Soft hair tickles Gerome's cheek, full of dust and a tangled mess from the road, and he closes his eyes.

"Welcome back."

[end]

Hope you enjoyed. :) I would love feedback as always, though I would rather not have any super in-depth critiques on this, as it was really just for fun.

I am entirely convinced based on the progression of events here that Minerva was working behind the scenes to get them together the whole time. XD

(Unrelated, but good lord formatting is a nightmare on this site XD)


End file.
